


Entangled

by tenderly_wicked



Series: Dark!John [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, Facials, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nipple Clamps, Riding Crop, Rope Bondage, Shibari, Slash, Smut, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:45:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by <a href="http://kuuttamo.tumblr.com/post/33364380526/i-have-a-slight-hunch-that-my-porn-is-getting">this fanart</a>. John makes a body harness for Sherlock.</p><p>You don’t need to read the previous fics in the series, they are all stand-alone stories, but hey, there’s more kinky stuff :-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entangled

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to primalmusic for proofreading!

Basically, John likes to be efficient. When it comes to restraints, he prefers to use handcuffs; they’re easy to apply, quick to fasten and release. Also, they snap onto Sherlock’s wrists with such a nice clicking sound… Of course, John doesn’t mind improvising when the handcuffs aren’t nearby. Yes, he always puts them back in the top drawer of the bedside table after having released a well-fucked, dreamy-gazed Sherlock – because Sherlock himself never bothers with keeping things in order, no matter the consequences for his backside – but the bedroom isn’t the only place for kinky activities. So, if needed, John can use any replacements that are within easy reach – bathrobe sashes, belts, Sherlock’s scarf, whatever. John is good at tying secure knots, and he’s able to do it pretty fast while Sherlock is thrashing and wriggling beneath him. Ex-military skills.

It’s what thrills him, arouses him: rough force, haste, struggle, hoarse groans, and brisk commands given and obeyed. Isn’t that what he needs? But if so… Why is he doing _this_ , then?

Sherlock is standing in front of him, completely naked, and barefoot on the carpet, head slightly tilted, a nervous smile dancing in the corners of his lips. The living room has undergone some modifications. John has pushed the armchairs out of the way, closer to the walls, to make additional space for the entertainment they are about to indulge in, and Sherlock is in the centre of this clearing.

Unlike Sherlock, John is fully dressed – black trousers, a smart black shirt. Not his favourite colour really, and not his favourite style either, though it suits him, but by now he knows that visual effects can add to the intensity of a scene. Sherlock seems to appreciate it when John not only _acts_ harsh on him but also _looks_ appropriately stern. So why not spoil him a little, just this once? John has taken so many precautions to make everything ideal that it’s a trifle in comparison.

What he is about to do requires concentration and skill. It’s similar to martial arts in some ways.

“Raise your arms, level with your shoulders,” he orders.

Sherlock does as he’s been told, and John regards him with approval from head to toe. His gaze lingers at Sherlock’s cock, already hardening and demanding immediate attention, and he can’t suppress an affectionate grin. Sherlock might look cold and detached in his sharp suits, but stripped of his posh clothes, he’s anything but cold – so sensitive, eager to give and take, gasping at the slightest caress, or even at a promise of it. 

It’s good that no one knows it but John, because John wants it all for himself; every shiver, every moan, and every obscene thought mirroring in Sherlock’s eyes when he loses control of himself and gives in to John completely.

John circles Sherlock unhurriedly, stops close behind him, so that Sherlock can feel warm ticklish breath at the nape of his neck as John enquires, “Do you know what I’m going to do to you?”

Sherlock makes a huffing sound, amused. “That’s hardly a secret, considering that there are two coils of rope lying on the desk in front of me. I suppose soon I’ll be bound. Do you really need _all_ of this rope though? It’s 50 feet at least.”

“Don’t get clever,” John warns him, pressing more firmly against his back; the sensation of fabric brushing against bare skin forces a shudder out of Sherlock. “I know exactly what amount of rope is required. The thing I’m going to do, it’s called karada. Body harness.” His hands slide up Sherlock’s tight abdomen, a feather-light touch. “So – no, wrong guess, not just bound. By the time I finish with you, you’ll be looking like a wild creature caught in a net, nice and secure.” At these words, he grips both Sherlock’s nipples and pinches them between his thumbs and the sides of his index fingers, none too gently.

Sherlock gives a startled yelp and jerks in John’s arms, but John holds him tight from behind. “No-no-no, don’t lower your arms yet. I’m afraid you’ll be a little bit bored holding this position while I’m working, an impatient thing as you are. But I’ve got a welcome distraction for you.”

He reaches for his pocket with his right hand, the other still twisting Sherlock’s nipple slightly. Sherlock jerks again when a clamp is placed behind its tip. “Come on, I know you can handle this for me,” John assures him and gets another clamp from his pocket. “They are adjustable. If you get bored despite this sensation, just tell me, I’ll tighten them.”

Sherlock only groans in reply. Nipple torture always seems to elicit mixed reactions from him – Sherlock hates it, yet his groin has an opinion of its own. When John slips his hand lower, Sherlock’s cock twitches enthusiastically. Not bored then, at least for now. Good. Time to proceed.

Actually, it was Sherlock who once mentioned the Japanese art of bondage, shibari. In an offhand way, but John knows Sherlock too well to miss a hint. He’s done his research, scrupulously as always, studying various ways to tie up a person in intricate patterns – too intricate for his liking. Funny enough, some methods of rope binding apparently originated from military restraint techniques (maybe that was why Sherlock thought this whole thing would have a certain appeal to him), but now shibari, which literally meant “to tie” or “to bind”, is a more entertaining than practical approach to holding down a captive.

So entertainment it will be. John takes the first coil of rope from the table and unties it theatrically with two snapping motions. The flicker he sees in Sherlock’s eyes justifies practicing this simple trick for days. John has never been a show-off, but with Sherlock, he’s so many things he isn’t with others. It’s rather ironic that he wants to impress Sherlock so much – Sherlock, the one who is supposed to be here for his pleasure, not vice versa.

John has chosen a 6 mm jute rope. The natural fibres easily lock to each other – the bondage will be held together by very simple knots and the friction of twists and turns. Besides, John doesn’t like synthetic materials, though they are cheaper and easier to come by. He loves the earthy smell of jute, and enjoys the feeling of rough rope in his hands.

He’s had a lot of practice with it recently, abusing a helpless mannequin Sherlock had brought home for some ominous purposes. At first he was clumsy, fumbling with knots, and he couldn’t help but catch himself thinking that he was glad Sherlock didn’t see him like this – inelegant, ridiculous. With Sherlock, he wanted to be perfect. Fortunately, he learned quickly.

He’s always been good at doing things with his hands… and _undoing_ Sherlock with measured touches, meticulously planned scenes of punishment, and dubious rewards. By now, John knows Sherlock so well that there’s no need to guess what will work best on him. This body is a familiar territory, and John handles it with proprietary confidence. First, he will apply the basic harness around the torso, the one he’s called “karada”. To start it, he finds the ends of the rope, runs his hands through it until he locates the middle, and places it around the back of Sherlock’s neck. A loose loop drapes between his shoulder blades, and both single ends of the rope go towards the front of his body. Sherlock shudders at the first brushes of rough rope against his skin. John knew he was going love it.

Now, the first overhand knot – using both ends of the rope at the same time – just below Sherlock’s collarbones. “All right, Sherlock, you are allowed to change position. Hold the rope in place. Here, on your chest. Good.”

The second overhand knot just under the ribs, the third one on the belly button, and the fourth one on the lower belly, three to four inches from each other. Perfect. John pulls the rope through cautiously and doesn’t hurry, which makes Sherlock sigh. Sometimes he’s deliberately impatient, provoking John to do something more _interesting_.

Oh well. You were asking for it, Sherlock.

“Now’s the funny part,” John warns him.

The next knot will be placed between the legs. John gently passes Sherlock’s penis through the loop – Sherlock gasps when John adjusts his balls and holds them for a moment in his hand like a valuable thing that needs weighing – and then John scrolls the rope through between Sherlock’s legs, pushing them slightly apart. Sherlock shifts in place uncomfortably. “Not too tight?” John asks in a businesslike manner. He has started tying the harness loosely, but it will cinch over time and rub against Sherlock’s genitals.

John brings both ends of the rope between Sherlock’s buttocks – he can’t resist the temptation to run his thumbs along the delicate crease – and then up over Sherlock’s spine and through the neck-loop. Now he splits the ends, and they go forward, one end on each side of the body, under the front-line in between the first and second overhand knots – and back again. John ties the ends together, right next to the spine, and repeats this procedure again and again, cinching but not too tight, just to make sure there is sufficient tension. All this causes the harness to vibrate, tickling and teasing Sherlock’s body. Sherlock is fidgeting under John’s touches, and it’s so deliciously sensual that John proceeds very slowly, on purpose, to cherish every moment of this game.

It’s just foreplay of course, and he should have considered it a waste of time, but strangely, it doesn’t feel like that.

At last, John locks the harness in place with a square knot and stands back to consider his work. Perfect. Symmetrical. An elaborate net stretched taut over pale flesh. He slips a finger under one of the strands, testing its tightness, and nods briskly, quite satisfied.

Sherlock’s arms will be bound next. Normally, John would secure them so that each wrist would meet the opposite elbow. They’ve already tried it. It’s easy to maintain this position for a long time, which is good considering that John always has lots of ideas in mind when Sherlock is restrained and helpless, at his mercy. But today John is testing Sherlock’s limits. “Hands behind your back,” he commands. He draws Sherlock’s elbows close together – they will be bound so tight that they’ll be touching. It’s a strenuous position, but Sherlock is flexible enough, he’ll handle it. And he can trust John to do everything the right way, to be cautious around joints, and not to constrict a major artery that passes close to the skin just above and below the elbows. A rope that is poorly placed can cause numbness, or even ligament and muscle damage… Ugh. A nasty thought. It’s good that John is so well up in anatomy.

But just in case he messes up, he’s got EMT shears with rounded tips to cut the rope at once, without causing injury. John may be a vain man, especially when it comes to Sherlock’s appraisal of his skills, but safety is more important than his pride.

“Test the bonds,” John suggests, once Sherlock’s arms are secured with rope. It’s not that Sherlock should learn they are inescapable – he already knows he’s expertly tied up and there’s no way he’ll get out of the bondage until John chooses to free him. But as he pulls on the ropes, he starts feeling the friction of the harness against his entire body with every move he makes, jute fibers rubbing against his skin – a half pleasant, half irritating itch.

John enjoys the show immensely. Knots and loops highlight the lines of Sherlock’s wiry but toned arms and torso, and the elbow bondage makes his chest slightly stand out, the clamped nipples on display, awaiting further manipulation. The visual appeal of having Sherlock’s body contorted by such a position is certainly there, but most of all, John is fascinated by the look on Sherlock’s face – slightly puzzled, like he can’t decide what he feels. Sherlock is good at deducing other people, but his own bodily reactions sometimes confuse him so much.

“What a beautiful plaything you are,” John murmurs, stepping closer. Their bodies don’t touch, but John notes to himself that Sherlock’s breathing quickens, his lips slightly parted, his gaze wary. To make up for the height difference, John grabs a fistful of soft curly hair at Sherlock’s nape and pulls his face down to speak right into his mouth, in a low voice, “Time to remove the clamps. Stay still. And not a sound. Is that clear?” A shaky exhale, a nod – very brisk, for John is still holding Sherlock’s nape, firmly and unyieldingly. “Good,” John breathes out, his lips almost brushing against Sherlock’s but not quite. Sherlock’s height advantage is not an advantage at all when he wants to lean in closer, desperately so, but can’t.

John lets go. His arm sneaks down Sherlock’s shoulder, tickles his flank, wraps around his waist, slides under the rope that runs along Sherlock’s spine. “You can’t hold onto me, with your hands bound, but I will hold you, promise.” His other hand comes to rest on the first nipple clamp. The pain should have subsided by now – and once it has numbed, leaving the clamps on longer will have little effect. Removing them though…

Sherlock’s knees almost buckle when John takes the clamp off.

“Steady, steady,” John mutters, his grip at the small of Sherlock’s back tightening. “It’s just your nerve receptors reawakening.” Tugging at the rope must cause a distracting, tingling sensation, somewhere between disturbing and erotic, as the whole harness digs into Sherlock’s skin. To add one more diversion, John stoops to nibble and lap just a little at the abused nub. Sherlock deserves a small reward for staying silent. The last time they tried playing with clamps, he yelled a lot. On the other hand, John hadn’t told him to stay quiet back then.

When Sherlock finally relaxes in John’s arms, John reaches for the second clamp. “One more to go.”

This time, Sherlock isn’t that successful at keeping the noise down. Maybe because John tightens the clamp one full turn before unscrewing it.

John holds him through the thrashing and groaning, and only when Sherlock calms down, still weak and quivering, he chides with regret, “I was hoping you had learned to control yourself, Sherlock. But nope. I give you a simple order – to stay still and make no sound. And how am I supposed to react when you ignore it, huh?”

Sherlock has not quite recovered yet to make an appropriately contrite face. Too bad.

“Right,” John sighs mournfully. “I though we’d have a nice relaxed evening together…” He cups Sherlock’s crotch and squeezes, just to let Sherlock know what he will miss due to his waywardness. “But you know I can’t leave disobedience unpunished.” He puts both hands onto Sherlock’s shoulders and slightly pushes him down, suggesting to submit rather than forcing obedience. “Kneel.”

Even with his hands tied up behind his back, Sherlock manages to slide to his knees gracefully, without losing balance. Now he looks like a proper captive.

On the table, a riding crop is waiting its turn. Not the one Sherlock owns, too flexible for John’s liking, good enough to whip a corpse but not always handy to use on a living body, even after proper disinfection. This one has a ridged handle for tighter grip, and a folded leather flap at the striking end, and its testing has been very satisfying so far.

John had laid it out on the table beforehand, right next to the coils of rope. Partly for Sherlock to see it and anticipate what’s about to happen if he misbehaves in some way or another, which he usually does. But mostly because John doesn’t want to leave him alone while heavily bound, not even for a few minutes. If anything happens, Sherlock won’t be able to reach a bind at the elbows by himself. John knows that he’s being ridiculously precautious, but it’s better this way than having regrets afterwards. So he prefers to be over-equipped than lacking anything.

“I suppose you’ve noticed this thing.” John runs his hand along the riding crop’s shaft. “Lying there for you. Just in case you act up – in fact, you’ve not been on your best behavior recently. I’m sensing a pattern here. Maybe I’ve been too indulgent lately. Time to fix it.”

John smacks the broad, square tip into his palm a few times. Sherlock is watching him from under demurely lowered lashes. Not the reaction John expects from him. Now then… An experimental swing – the riding crop cuts through the air with a whoosh sound, making Sherlock cringe for a second. Oh yes, much better. But Sherlock will have to wait for a real stroke for quite some time, until he is nicely wound up.

John reaches out the tip of the crop and lightly caresses Sherlock’s face with its flat surface, brushes it against his cheek, the underside of his jaw. Sherlock tilts his head into the touch, gentle and intimate for now. Using the crop’s shaft, John strokes the side of his neck; slowly traces the end of the crop down his throat, chest, and belly, following the lines of the harness; fondles the inner sides of his thighs before turning to his genitals. Sherlock’s spectacular erection certainly deserves very close attention. “Having fun?” John mocks him. He slides the whip back and forth across Sherlock’s cock, applying steady pressure. Soon its tip glistens with Sherlock’s pre-come, and John wipes it across Sherlock’s chest, rubbing the leather flap against his nipples, one after the other. “How indecent. I may choose to toy with you a bit before the actual punishment. This doesn’t mean you are allowed to enjoy it so shamelessly.”

The riding crop comes down on Sherlock’s chest, over the left nipple. A shivering exhale – and a more audible gasp as the next swift stroke against the right nipple catches Sherlock unawares. John flicks the riding crop over his sensitized nipples again and again, alternating between the two targets at random. Snap! Snap!

Finally, satisfied with the results, which include Sherlock squeezing his eyes shut and flinching at every swish of the crop, John stops – and when Sherlock looks up at him, with a mute plea, the tip of the riding crop deliberately detours around each reddened, obscenely aroused nipple. “I could continue if I wanted to, you know. You wouldn’t stop me, not when tied up like this. How does it feel, Sherlock? To be so-o helpless?”

Obviously, it feels torturously exciting. Sherlock’s cock still lurches all the way to his belly from the noose of the rope wrapped around his genitals. Maybe next time it would be better to tighten this loop some more, to make it a less-gentle reminder of Sherlock’s humble submissive role. Good ideas come with experience.

John’s own erection has become too constricted in his pants. With the riding crop still in his left hand, he thumbs open the button on his trousers, awkwardly unzips the fly, eager to finally release himself, and almost with a sigh of relief, pulls his cock out from his underwear. Sherlock opens his mouth readily, but John taps the tip of the riding crop against Sherlock’s thigh. “Nah, no moves until I say so. And no whining,” he adds harshly when Sherlock lets out a disappointed “oh”.

John draws his cock slowly across Sherlock’s cheek, rubs himself against this wonderfully smooth skin – a delicious tactile pleasure – and Sherlock palpably forces himself not to press into the touch.

“Greedy, greedy,” John scolds him, but with less austerity, his voice gone hoarse – Sherlock’s pained struggle at being obedient almost sends John over the edge. He lightly slaps his achingly hard cock across Sherlock’s lewdly parted lips. “So desperate for a dick. But it’s a reward, Sherlock, and why would I reward you? No reason at all. But you’ll help me to get off.” John lets go of his cock and presses a palm to Sherlock’s mouth. “Lick it. Make it wet.”

Sherlock does his best, lapping at John’s palm, gently sucking on his fingers. John stops him when he gets too enthusiastic. “Enough. Now watch.”

John begins to rub his fist slowly up and down the length of his shaft, feeling the slip-slide of saliva – soon it mixes up with pre-come as he starts thumbing the head too. Gradually, his pace picks up, his balls sometimes banging down on Sherlock’s chin, or the tip of his cock batting against Sherlock’s nose.

When John is unbearably close, he orders huskily, “Open your mouth.” He pumps himself viciously, squeezing tighter and choking on a groan as he splatters his release onto Sherlock’s lips and tongue. He doesn’t stop until he forces every last drop out of his cock. “Now suck me clean,” he commands, and though his voice is still unsteady, he manages to sound more or less authoritative.

John always feels sated and hazy after the climax, maybe even strangely sentimental. He’s glad that Sherlock is too busy to look up because at present, the expression on his face is too far from the stern one Sherlock likes so much. He lets Sherlock gently suckle on his softening penis while he’s idly threading his fingers through the dark curls.

A few escaped dribbles of come are slowly oozing down the bridge of Sherlock’s nose. John smears them across Sherlock’s cheeks with a thumb, slides it between Sherlock’s lips, “Clean it too.” And Sherlock eagerly swirls his tongue around it.

Finally, John tucks his deflated penis back into his pants and pulls the zipper on his trousers up. Having put the riding crop back onto the desk, strictly parallel to its edge and still in plain sight, he comes round his captive and slides to the carpet behind him – maybe not as gracefully as the latter, but there’s no one to see it. He pulls Sherlock closer, between his spread legs, and though it’s hardly possible for Sherlock to settle up comfortably against him, with his arms still tightly bound, John manages to shift the pliant body so that Sherlock’s head comes to rest in the curve of his shoulder. John reaches around Sherlock’s chest to play with the sore nipples in a lazy unhurried manner while his other palm is spread upon Sherlock’s throat. Slightly pressing on it, John can feel a soundless groan bubbling up in there with every exhale, but Sherlock stoically doesn’t let it out.

“Much better,” John drops a praise into Sherlock’s curls. “You see now, you _can_ be obedient if you really try. How about I give you a treat for that?”

Sherlock can’t hold a gasp when John’s fingertips brush against his cock.

“Shame we don’t have a larger mirror here,” John whispers into his ear as he lightly scrapes his fingernails up and down the shaft. “Maybe we should get one. You should see yourself when you’re like this, helpless, and weak with need. You look so wanton. So depraved.”

John takes his time toying with the tip of Sherlock’s penis until Sherlock is squirming uncontrollably, his head tilted back against John’s shoulder. Finally, John takes mercy on him and starts stroking in earnest – and after a few minutes of agony, Sherlock comes with a half-stifled cry, spurts of semen covering John’s fist, and John holds him through the aftershocks.

They both stay still for a while, John’s arm round Sherlock’s waist. When John gets up to reach for wet wipes, Sherlock calls after him, “John?” It sounds like a plea, like _don’t leave_. The words Sherlock probably would never say.

“I’m here,” John sighs. “Not going anywhere.”

He cleans Sherlock’s face, very gently, and his other body parts that need even more delicate handling. Having gotten rid of the wipes, he takes his place behind Sherlock again. “I’m going to untie your elbows. But the harness stays on, it looks too good on you. You’ll be wearing it the whole day – and nothing else.”

Sherlock mutters something incoherent but seemingly approving.

John tries to undo the bonds with care. There are some compression marks created by wraps around skin, but they will fade rather quickly. No burns from pulling the rope too quickly, no bruising from poorly placed knots. John congratulates himself mentally. Maybe next time he’ll go further and tie Sherlock’s legs to this harness too, and they could experiment with genital bondage more thoroughly.

Later, John will coil the rope carefully, and push the armchairs back to their places like nothing has happened, but now he just wants to sit on the carpet with Sherlock curled up in his arms for a few minutes more.

Their living room is a mess, as always. Sherlock’s blue dressing gown is hanging from the sofa armrest, there are piles of newspapers on the coffee table, and a deerstalker hat lies on top of them. In every article about Sherlock – and in the last months, they have been abundant – there are photographs of them both, the great detective and “bachelor John Watson”. Sherlock never goes out in public alone, whether it’s a press conference or a private party; John won’t let him. Partially because it’s a pleasure to shush him when he’s about to say something inappropriate, and then scold him in private, but there’s more to it.

The urge not to let Sherlock out of his sight is overwhelming. Too many people. Too many interested people. And the only hints that Sherlock is his, that he is taken are these “who’s-there-beside-Boffin-Holmes” photos and vague speculations in tabloids.

John pulls Sherlock closer, and Sherlock settles so naturally against his chest. He’s going to keep Sherlock nude, save for the harness, the whole day long, and tomorrow he’ll think out something interesting too. And they will have fun – until Sherlock’s phone starts ringing. Sherlock will look at him half pleadingly, half defiantly, and of course John will nod briskly – yes, you may answer.

He’s still not quite sure what would happen if he forbid Sherlock to pick up another case. Would Sherlock submit to this order? But it’s not that John really wants to find out. He’d rather stage one elaborate scene after another to keep Sherlock beside him as long as possible – and hope that Sherlock won’t get bored of him.

At the moment, the object of John’s never-ending anxiety – temporarily distracted from criminal plots – smiles somewhat languidly, a blissed-out expression still on his face. “Maybe you should make me wear such a harness underneath my clothing when I go out.”

John chuckles, his arms wrapped around Sherlock’s waist protectively, possessively. The idea is extremely appealing but not very wise. “Your shirts are too fitted. This harness would be visible. Everyone would gape at you.” _Freak_ , they would call him.

“I don’t mind.”

“Well I do.”

Sherlock twists in his arms and stares at him, uncomprehending. “It really bothers you. What people say.”

“Yes.”

“About me? I don’t understand – why would it upset you?”

John doesn’t have a good answer for that.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes out after a moment’s pause, and snuggles back into the embrace. He doesn’t expand on his thought, and John doesn’t dare to ask what he meant.

Maybe it’s some kind of stuck-with-Holmes syndrome when the one who’s been thinking himself in control slowly becomes more and more attached to his prey until he can’t let go. It has been an obsession from the start, but now it’s even more than that – a dull ache in John’s chest like it’s his body that is tightly bound, a constant itch of invisible ropes against his heart.

Secretly, John wants everyone to know that Sherlock is his, of course he does. But he tries to be rational about it. He’s literally nobody, he’s got no reputation to protect, so a revelation like this will do him no harm. Sherlock, on the other hand… It’s totally another matter. Flashbulbs go mad when he appears at press conferences, and everyone starts applauding. Sherlock is not exactly a private detective anymore; he’s this far from famous.

Sherlock doesn’t care for his current celebrity status, that’s true. But someone should, for his sake. They need to be more careful. Maybe they should stay out of the news for a while.

“Oh, it’ll pass,” Sherlock tells him, nonchalantly.

It’d better pass. Because John wants Sherlock solely for himself, so badly that it hurts. He’d keep this man bound and gagged in their tiny flat for days; he’d mark him, and degrade him, and please him; he’d do whatever it took to make him forget everything and everyone else…

But maybe it wouldn’t be enough.

John is combing his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, holding him with a strange feeling of sadness, like something devastatingly precious – something he can play with for awhile but won’t be able to keep to himself for long.

**Author's Note:**

> The next story in this series, [The Family Share](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6485281), is Season 3 compliant and involves Mary, so if you don't like her, maybe it's better to read my other dark!John fics: [One for All](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6686149) and [Aftershocks](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7059547).
> 
> And you can also check out my novel [Tenderly Wicked](https://www.amazon.com/Tenderly-Wicked-Katerina-Ross-ebook/dp/B01LYGUJ02/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1473767605&sr=1-1#nav-subnav) and my paranormal M/M series [The Sons of Gomorrah](http://a.co/0ttTWNF) :)


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